


Abuse

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Prostitution, Self-Denial, Victorian Attitudes, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Victorians were very uptight about masturbation. But there's a first time for everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abuse

**Author's Note:**

> It was my New Year's resolution to write and post more, but everything in my fanfiction folder is incomplete kinkmeme fills from aaaages ago. I'll write something worthwhile eventually, but for now it's just more silly sex stuff.

I.

Mother said it was evil, Headmaster said it was shameful, doctors said it was harmful, and Mycroft said it decayed the mind. When, at the age of ten, he was caught with his hand down his pants, he was thrashed so thoroughly that for weeks afterward he was afraid to lay a finger on himself even when he went to use the toilet. His body was conspiring against him, laying traps disguised as natural urges and sewing sinful thoughts in his mind. It defied him at every turn, even when he was asleep. He would wake from dreams he did not fully remember that left him shaken and confused, and with a mess to clean up before anyone else was awake to notice. 

The only solution, he decided, was to gain complete mastery over his body. He would subdue it, tame it, make it a slave of his mind. As a boy, he turned to athletics. Team sports quickly exhausted his patience, but he excelled at fencing and boxing, activities that required strength and agility. Other boys his age had always thought him queer and unsettling, but as long as he could show himself adept at a sport, he was suddenly considered a healthy young man. Eventually, he learned to channel his body’s restlessness into pummeling his opponent. And when the other boys brought up the matter, he could ignore it with indifference. 

As a young man, he heard tales from the Orient about monks and fakirs who spent their lives freeing their minds from their physical bodies. They fasted for months on end, meditating constantly, raising their self control to such a pitch that they could will away their bodies’ desires entirely. 

This, he decided, was the ultimate goal. It was well enough to be strong and fit, but to be beyond the needs of his body, to escape all the hungers of the flesh, whether for food or…anything else--then his mind would be free. 

By the age of twenty seven, he was confident he had as much control over himself as a well tuned machine. He was thin and deadly as a razor blade. He was severe and ascetic to the point of mania. The punishing regime inflicted on his body had become so necessary that it was a reward in itself. He had excised all pollution and weakness from his flesh. 

And then John H. Watson ruined his life. 

Holmes was lying stretched out on the sofa, naked from the waist down. Watson stood a few feet away, silhouetted in the bay window. He had his back turned, and Holmes did not know whether he was aware of his presence. The bright light streaming through the window heightened the bold lines of his body; Holmes was entranced by the powerful muscles of his thighs, the curve of his buttocks. He wished Watson would turn around, would catch him in this voyeuristic letch. Watson’s feet were planted slightly apart and Holmes could just glimpse between the cleft of his thighs and see the soft dark skin of his testicles. He wanted to reach out and touch the pale skin of his inner thigh, run his fingers over the sparse hair. But it was as if he were bound to the sofa. He could not so much as lift his hands. At that moment, Watson turned slightly, and stood in profile against the bright window. Holmes could see the outline of his sex, how it was growing and arcing upright. He ached to stroke it, to feel its warmth. Watson turned his head, a word on his red lips. 

Then he woke up. 

His room was filled with blue-gray predawn light. In the perfect stillness he was aware of his rough breathing, and the throbbing ache between his legs. He usually woke up after the fact. It was messy, but took less effort than willing it away. 

It was very bad this time. Just thinking about the dream made him twitch and squirm. He rolled over on his belly and buried his face in the pillow. The pressure of the mattress only heightened his arousal. He had to ignore it. If he waited long enough, it would go away on its own. And for the love of God, he couldn’t think about Watson. Couldn’t think about Watson naked. Watson with a massive hard-on. Of course he would have a magnificent prick. It would be perfectly proportional to the rest of him, thick and on the generous side of average length. 

Holmes pressed his hips and spread his legs, sliding against the bed. Watson would never have this sort of problem, needing to resort to self abuse. He would never be short of company. Holmes rocked slightly against the bed. The bedframe creaked beneath him. 

Of course Watson would look glorious when he was fucking somebody. Holmes grabbed another pillow and stuffed it beneath his hips, levering against it, thrusting shallowly. He was hardly moving at all, really. Surely this didn’t count. He was practically still asleep. Just as long as he didn’t think of Watson, his friend. Watson rolling his hips, thrusting, fucking, coming. 

He choked back a gasp as he came, stifling his heavy breaths in the pillow. He had a nearly overwhelming desire to touch himself, but he fisted his hands in the pillow still clutched beneath his hips. 

The physical symptoms were gone, but an unfulfilled hunger remained. He was overwhelmed by shame and disgust. He cleaned his nightshirt off with a wet handkerchief. This was the longest night of sleep he had had in the past month. Maybe if he slept less he wouldn’t have these sort of dreams. 

II. 

The more Holmes thought about it, and think about it he did, the more obvious it became that Watson frequented certain houses of ill repute. The clues were easy enough to follow. 

Watson would leave with his shoelaces tied in one knot and return with them double knotted, because he left with the intent to take his shoes off as soon as possible, did so, and tied them in the usual way for the journey home. He would have a different handkerchief the next day, having given up the previous one for cleaning. When he returned home, the roots of his hair at his temples and at the base of his neck were slightly dark with sweat, but the exercise had taken place some time ago, and was not due to walking any distance. His face was flushed and his eyes were bright, but his movements were languid. He was cheerful and tired, as if he had been drinking wine, but no wine had been had. A faint smell clung to his skin and clothing. Cheap perfume. Powder. Sweat. And the other thing. 

The morning after, he was always in high spirits and well rested. And, by all appearances, he was oblivious that Holmes saw through his deception. If questioned, or if he felt a need to explain his absence, he would declare that he was going to his club. Sometimes this was only half a lie, by omission. But it was abundantly clear to Holmes that Watson’s club did not lie in the vicinity of Soho. Or perhaps he didn’t care that Holmes knew, and lied only for the sake of propriety. All bachelors did it. All normal bachelors. 

What really maddened Holmes was that he had the solution, but not the explanation. He had no idea exactly what Watson was doing, or with whom. And the more he thought about it, the more a desire grew within him to witness the cause of these spectacular effects. He had never made anything like a comprehensive study of sex. He understood the basic mechanics, and how things worked in theory, but that still left a wide margin of uncertainty for any deduction regarding Watson’s proclivities. And all of his existing knowledge had been got indirectly, by inference or overheard fragments of unreliable conversation. 

The frustration of not knowing was terrible. He could not possibly ask Watson to remedy this annoyance; they were not nearly intimate enough to have that discussion. Holmes wasn’t sure how two people could ever be intimate enough for that discussion. 

It took him months to build up the nerve to take action. It wasn’t any regard for Watson’s privacy that stayed him, but only an obsessive need to know that the plan was water-tight. He reasoned out _where_ Watson would go, under _what circumstances_ , and determined which of these haunts were open to the plan he had in mind. By the time the itch returned, Holmes had pinpointed when Watson would depart and where he was heading. 

Holmes gave Watson a head start, but arrived several minutes before him after taking several shortcuts. It was a not an ostentatious establishment, but had a reputation for being well run. Watson’s tastes may have been conventional, but he chose conscientiously. 

There was no artifice, and no complex exchange of favors. Holmes offered the owner an exorbitant sum to be able to watch the next customer from some secluded location. It is no secret that many brothels have such rooms. He was shown into a small, dark space with a bed. A framed picture opened a panel in the wall which created a window into the adjacent room, but from that side the window was covered by a painted screen disguised as a Japanese print. He was given a companion in this room despite his insistence he wished only to observe. She was called Christine. She had brown hair. 

He had only to wait minutes before Watson arrived. He was accompanied by just the sort of golden-haired soft-faced young woman Holmes expected Watson would prefer. 

Things began with very little preamble. Apparently Watson had a “usual.” He disrobed with perfect shameless confidence, and arranged himself on the bed with complete equanimity, as if their exchange were as mundane as being fitted for a shirt. 

Holmes had never observed two people have sex before. He had glanced things through windows, seen whores at work in alleyways—but this was like a scientific demonstration solely for his benefit. He could smell the sweat and musk of them, hear every breath and moan. Hers were mere theatrical flourishes, but Watson’s every movement seemed to emit a vibrant energy that filled Holmes with longing. 

He stood behind the wall, round-eyed, a slight quiver running down his body. He bit the knuckles of his right hand. Christine was still in the room with him but he hardly noticed her presence, he was so entranced by the performance in the next room. 

Christine sank to her knees in front of him. She ran one hand up the inseam of his trousers. He shivered. Her seeking fingers nearly reached the obscene hot bulge between his legs. He grabbed her wrist and stopped her progress, not moving his eyes for an instant. She curled her fingers and gently stroked his testicles through the cloth. He could feel sweat prickling out on his back, on his belly, on his thighs. Watson had set into an unhurried rhythm, like breathing, like a heartbeat, the slick muscles in his back rolling with his motions. 

Christine nuzzled his cock. He jumped at the contact. 

He hissed at her to stop. 

She told him to take his prick out. 

He refused. 

She smirked at him contemptuously. She offered him absolutely anything he wanted for a shilling. He told her he would gladly pay to be left alone. 

Then, suddenly, with a sound of utter gratification, it was all over in the next room. Holmes had missed the crowning moment. He was furious beyond speech. Christine backed away from him, wary of his anger. But he only swept out of the room, out of the house, out into the street and away, in search of some violent physical outlet for his unspent passion. 

The dreams came hard and fast that night. He awoke briefly with a fading feeling of profound release, and the uncomfortable awareness that his body had defied him again. 

III. 

Spring was on its way. The rain and humidity made going outside distinctly uncomfortable. Worst of all, by far, was the fact that some of Holmes’ bad habits were beginning to rub off on his flatmate. Watson had developed a terrible lazy streak, and would lie around in his shirtsleeves with his collar undone and his hair mussed from sleep. He had no idea what he was doing to Holmes and would answer his stares with well meaning incomprehension. 

A client visited on one wretchedly rainy day. While he still insisted he had no use for women, Holmes could appreciate them in an abstract aesthetic sort of way. This woman was breathtaking. Watson obviously thought so, too. He was practically drooling as he sat at a polite distance taking notes, devouring her with his eyes. Holmes could hardly pay attention to the poor woman’s story, he was so distracted by Watson and by the filthy images that sprang unbidden to his mind. Luckily, his behaviour was hardly distinguishable from his usual bad-mannered arrogance. But by the end of the interview he was unable even to stand to escort their guest out. He was stuck in his armchair, scowling, legs crossed tightly and hands folded in his lap. Watson saw her out, every inch the charming gentleman. 

He was still feeling tense and uneasy hours later. He had the terrible feeling that he could not continue in this vein without physical repercussions. The thing had come to a metaphorical head, and Holmes finally decided that his only option was to seek medical advice. 

He paused outside Watson’s door, rehearsing what he would say. He would have to phrase it all in hypothetical terms, of course. The man thought he was enough of a deviant already. There was no need to lower his opinion. Perhaps it could wait. Perhaps Watson was busy, in which case he really shouldn’t bother him. He crouched down, and pressed one eye to the keyhole. 

Holmes’ jaw dropped at the sight. Watson was lying flat on his bed, not wearing a stitch of clothing, knees spread wide, and, one hand wrapped around his cock, was unabashedly pleasuring himself. His entire body moved with the rhythm set by his hand, twisting up into it, thrusting and writhing. He dragged his free hand over his chest pinching his nipples, stroking his belly and thighs. 

Holmes was sure he whimpered, but the sound was masked by the heavy rain outside. His knees went weak as he watched. He ground the heel of his hand against his groin, trying to subdue his sudden overpowering erection. He could not tear his eye away from Watson’s performance. Watson’s back arched against the bed as he canted his hips upward. Then he did something entirely unexpected. He put to fingers of his left hand into his mouth and sucked them until they were slick with saliva. Then, lifting his hips, he insinuated his fingers between his buttocks. 

Holmes’ cock swelled, and he grabbed himself through his trousers. He could not stand this any longer. He had never been this hard before. And if Watson, of all people, allowed himself this sort of indiscretion, if he could lie there masturbating wantonly…then how bad could it possibly be? 

He hurried back down the stairs. The instant he was in his room, he threw himself onto his bed. He did not quite know where to begin. 

He undid the buttons on his trousers. His cock twitched at the slight contact. He pushed them down his thighs. His erection pointed upward like an arrow. He was so aroused, it was nearly painful. He wrapped one thin hand around it. His fingers were too cold. He breathed on his hands to warm them. 

He squeezed his fists around his cock, one beneath the other. His hips lifted ever so slightly, thrusting into the tight space. He squeezed harder, and the mere pressure seemed incredible. A warmth was growing deep within his loins. He rubbed his palm over the head of his cock, spreading the moisture gathered there. 

He gently pulled his foreskin down and pressed with his thumb. His leg jerked involuntarily and his knee banged against wall. His thoughts were erratic. They kept darting back to Watson, but the great horror of the shame of it caused them to skitter away again. He only wanted his body to be released from this affliction. He must try to appease the monster within him, the hunger that seemed to grow as it was fed. Whatever he needed, he needed it faster, stronger; he needed more. 

He pulled his shirt over his head. He looked down the long white plane of his body, laid bare, drawn inexorably forward by this embodiment of blind intent. He wriggled his hips, moving them in thrusts and circles as he tugged with his hand. He pressed his fingers against his perineum, squeezed his balls, feeling, rubbing, trying anything he could to enhance the feeling. 

Sweat ran down his face, and shone on his chest. He was losing his mind. His back arched. His heels dug into the bed. His entire body was desperate and frantic. His movements were inelegant and unpracticed, and this frustrated him further. He grimaced in concentration. Dear lord, it would never stop. He would be trapped here for ever, on the verge of some unimaginable chasm, building, building. 

And then, suddenly, when he could not hold it back any longer, as clear as life: Watson. Like a dam bursting from a single weak stone, his mind was flooded with all the fantasies of Watson he had tried to ignore over the past months: the Watson of his dreams and his waking fantasies, the Watson upstairs in his room. His hips echoed the motion of Watson’s hips. He remembered him in the brothel, the arch of his back, his strong shoulders. He wanted that body against his own, wanted to feel the heat and the weight of it. Those arms around him. Those hands on him. That glowing, gasping body to glory in him and love him. 

He felt something twitch deep inside of him. A burst of white shot out between his fingers. He may have cried out. His eyes fluttered closed and his head dropped back. Then another spurt, and he continued to pump his hand fast and tight. And another. And beyond that, he knew nothing. 

His muscles lost all strength and he curled up on the bed like a dying creature, knees drawn up, hand still cradling his tender flesh. He sensed an unfathomable change within himself, a loss he did not fully understand. 

Then the door opened. 

"Holmes, are you alright? I thought I heard a--" 

The shout was embarrassingly loud, but not as embarrassing as attempting to cover himself with the blanket and falling off the bed.


End file.
